


I Like Your Dress

by copperkettle



Category: Real Person Fiction, Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Cheating, F/M, Martin Freeman/Reader - Freeform, Martin Freeman/You - Freeform, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Sexual Harrassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperkettle/pseuds/copperkettle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're a Martin Freeman fangirl, and get a chance to go to an awards show. You bump into your ultimate celebrity crush. He's attending with his long term partner, but that doesn't seem to stop him taking a liking to you. And that dress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Like Your Dress

It's only your second week on the job when you get told that you'll be attending the awards show. You nod coolly, making a note in your diary - and only when your boss turns away do you start dancing, excitement running through you in waves. You know that as soon as you get home, you'll be on the phone to your friends - Oh, fuck it - you won't even make it to the tube.   
Lauren will be so jealous. Ella will likely attack you out of sheer frustration; she's been applying for the pitifully short supply of public access tickets for years now. And you get to go for nothing!   
  
Perks of the job.  
You leave the offices and sure enough, by the time you get home you have a batch of envious friends and a Facebook status with thirty six 'likes'. You've left it pretty late though, and have to hop in the shower after scarfing down half a pasta bake that one of your flatmates left out. In exchange, you promise to get her tickets in the future - though that probably won't happen. You wonder if Lily can see through your lies, but smile sweetly anyway and she rolls her eyes, laughing as she leaves you dashing into the bathroom.  
  
Forty five minutes later and you emerge; exfoliated, shaven, buffed and smoothed, your wet hair in a towel on your head. Of course, you are paranoid that photographers will be there. You already know that they will. This particular show usually has the entirety of Leicester Square blocked up with paparazzi and crowds, craning their necks to see the celebrities stepping gracefully from their cars. You'll be going in a taxi of course, and with your boss, Lisa. It may be an award show, but a celebrity you are not.   
  
In a moment of sheer excitement, you kiss the notecard taped to your noticeboard, that reads the name of your television agency. The business is tough and demanding, and pays less than you'd thought - but this.. this will be one of the perks. Maybe you'll never get to go again. You plan to enjoy it. And if he's there, then that's just a bonus.

 

You know that you're hoping he will be. It's all you thought about, since Lisa told you that you could come. It's all your friends teased you about, between their jealous whines and disbelieving giggles. They always tease you about it. You can see why, to be honest. 

After all; you're twenty years old and you're in love with Martin Freeman.   
He looks back at you from your bedroom wall; several different incarnations. Bilbo Baggins, John Watson, even a few pap shots from shows and events. You even have a signed napkin that Ella managed to get for you, when her mum bumped into him in a posh London restaurant that you could never, ever afford.

Your friends scoff, but you don't really care. They're besotted with the other men of the moment; Tom Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch, Chris Hemsworth. And you get it, you really do - of course, they're all good looking. But there's just something about Martin.. There always has been, for you.  

Snapping yourself from your reverie, you swear as you realise you've spent a good twenty minutes just staring at your posters, idling around the room and mooning over the bloody man. Hurriedly, you plonk yourself onto the floor and pull over your make-up bag to where your full length mirror is leaning. Lashings of mascara, some foundation and powder - don't want to look shiny on those photographs - and even a spot of dark cherry lipstick, just because.

It matches your dress, which is pretty much the only fancy dress you own. You bought it for your job interview a month ago, and loved how it hugged everything without exposing too much. Classy and smart, with just a hint of sexy. You wonder if Lisa will comment on it, but decide that you don't care and pull it on anyway with a pair of sheer tights and those black heels that are probably going to see you landing flat on your face at some point. Luckily, there are straps, and you do them up as tightly as possible.

A taxi horn honks outside and you are swearing again, packing your phone and purse into a little black bag before glancing at yourself in the mirror. You haven't done a thing with your hair, and it hangs in waves, having dried in the time that you've been getting ready. You suppose that you can probably just claim that 'effortlessly messy' style, and dash down the stairs, slinging your bag over your shoulder and calling a quick 'See you later!' to Lily, who tells you that she's going to wait up with tea until you get home.

  
You pull shut the front door and clack down the path, unceremoniously plonking yourself down in the taxi beside Lisa with a breathless "Hi." She gives a tinkling laugh at your arrival and shakes her head, long earrings dangling by her jaw. You suddenly wish that you'd thought to wear earrings - or any jewellery at all, really. But the taxi is already moving, and there isn't time. 

\--

 

When you get close, your heart begins to pound. You can already see flashing lights and cordons keeping huge crowds away from the theatre where the awards show is being held. White lights swing and flare into the air and as you get closer,you join a small queue of cars waiting to release their stars onto the red carpet. Up ahead You can see Jennifer Lawrence, followed by a handsome Nicholas Hoult. You give a squeak of excitement, and Lisa rolls her eyes at you with a smile, delving into her bag for our passes. She hands you yours, and you read that you are sitting at table 14. You ask her where our table will be, and she tells me that we won't be sitting at the same one.   
"These were last minute." She explains, "So you'll just be in with whoever, really. That's okay though, isn't it?"  
You hurriedly assure her that yes, of course it is. No big deal. 

You'll just be on your own with a load of celebrities or industry strangers.

When you finally pull up, the flashbulbs are popping even before you both climb out of the cab - but die off fairly quickly when the paparazzi realise that you aren't famous. You and Lisa walk side by side and she smiles anyway, as if she's some kind of star herself. You suppose in her own mind, she is. You feel conscious of every miniscule detail on the red carpet. You are being watched from every angle.  
Is your hair too messy? Has the hem of your dress ridden up? Is it creased at the back? Can you see the label? Don't trip in the heels, whatever you do, do not trip in the heels..

And then you're inside, and you relax for just a few seconds. And then you feel a tap on the shoulder.

"Hello - have we met?"

You turn around, and Martin is standing there. Martin Freeman. The Martin Freeman. Your - well, no, he isn't yours. But.. but he's the-

"Hello?" He asks again, prompting you kindly. Beside you, Lisa gives you a look that tells you to remain professional, and you just manage to shake your head and squeak out that no, you haven't met. But you're a fan. A big, big fan. Or something of that nature.

Martin is joined after a few moments by his girlfriend, and you smile at her kindly although you are a bit disappointed. You aren't really sure why, though. You've always known that he's practically married - and you love Amanda's work. 

They turn to walk into the hall, and you are confronted with Benedict Cumberbatch, greeting Lisa with a hug and then you, by an awkward default. Again, you squeak out that you are a fan, and you might also add that 'my friend loves you', and he gives you a sweet smile. This carries on for a while. Just standing in that hall, you and Lisa are acquainted - or reacquainted, in her case - with Simon Pegg, Zooey Deschanel, Kit Harrington, Daniel Craig and the cast of that show on Channel 4 that Lily watches religiously.

Finally, Lisa pats you on the shoulder and you head into the hall. Almost immediately, she deserts you for her own table, and you begin an inner monologue of 'try and keep calm', 'look for the numbers', 'table six', 'table eleven'.. Eventually you find your table, and discover that you have been put between the comedian Jimmy Carr and Rupert Grint. You suppose you're quite happy - Rupert Grint has always seemed lovely. After a few nervous introductions, the wine starts flowing and you feel a little bit more at ease. You don't recognise the rest of the guests at your table and guess that they must be other industry helpers. Jimmy makes you laugh, and Rupert launches into a story about his ice cream van, and you feel much better about this whole thing. 

A few minutes before the show is about to begin, the two seats across the table are finally filled. It is Martin and Amanda. Of course it bloody is, you think. It would be, wouldn't it? You tell yourself that you shouldn't stare at him. Whatever you do, do not stare at him. That's weird. That's not a normal thing to do. Oh God, he caught you staring. Look away, look away.  
You take a large swig of wine and turn your attention to the stage. You could have sworn you heard him chuckle.

 

\--

The awards show is interesting, but it is slower than you expected. The nominations and acceptance speeches are spread between talks and so many film clips. Soon, your table begins to talk amongst yourselves and you cover your mouth with your hands to laugh as Jimmy tells a joke that would never be shown on air. All at once, you feel something on the exposed skin of your foot, just under the strap for your shoe. You are confused for moment, and glance down before realising that it must be a foot. In a sock. Somebody is touching your foot with their foot. Somebody has taken off a shoe. You are confused, and then suddenly you give an exasperated laugh. Is somebody trying to play footsie with you? Does somebody.. does somebody fancy you?

Rupert looks at you oddly and asks if you are alright, and you nod. Is it him? He goes on to tell you that your dress is lovely, and you smile. Rupert Grint cannot be flirting with you. That's ridiculous. But then he gets up and sneaks over to another table to talk to a director, and your smile fades bemusedly. It can't be his foot. Well, it never would have been, you realise. Duh. He'd have to be pretty flexible to.. but.. who is it, then?  
You look up, narrowing your eyes just slightly and looking around your other table guests. Martin looks right back at you, and you feel a heat rise into your cheeks. You weren't even staring at him this time! You protest in your mind. A niggling feeling tells you that it is his foot. It's at the right angle, after all. But why would he.. that's.. he wouldn't. Amanda's right there! And this is you, we're talking about. Nobody flirts with you. Maybe it's an accident.

You smile back at him, and turn back to Jimmy, who is showing you a picture on his phone. Rupert returns, and the foot slips higher, clothed toes dancing above your ankle. If it is Martin, he won't be able to reach any higher. Sure enough, the foot stops at that height. You give him a quizzical look, trying to forget that his face is plastered over your bedroom walls. A smile quirks the corner of his lip, and it is a dirty smile. You immediately lean back in your seat, both bemused and slightly shocked. Well, it's him then.

You don't quite know what to think, and at that moment everyone stands up to clap as Rupert goes up to collect an award. Your table cheers the loudest, and when you sit back down, you meet Martin's eyes once more. You can't help it. Amanda seems oblivious, and has barely glanced at him all night. She talks to the woman next to her avidly, whilst her boyfriend's foot is tracing patterns on your ankle.

\--

 

After ten more minutes of this idle stuff, you feel decidedly flustered and excuse yourself to the ladies room. You don't actually need to go, but you stand with your hands on the sink counter, staring at yourself and asking what on Earth is happening. Is Martin flirting with you? Your Martin? Your bloody fantasy, Martin? His wife - or as good as - is sat right there! It feels so.. wrong. Odd.  
You feel like a terrible person when you realise that you're actually pretty turned on. After all, it's.. well, it's the dirtiest thing you've ever been a part of. And it's just his bloody sock.

You're thankful that the bathroom is empty. Everyone is raptly watching the show. Well, almost everyone. You come out of the bathroom and find him standing there, leaning back against the wall with one knee bent and his arms folded loosely across his chest. Martin. That three piece suit fits him bloody well, you note as you begin to walk timidly back towards the hall.  
"Wait."  
His voice is gravelled, and quiet. It is quite unlike how he sounds in anything you've seen him in, but it makes you freeze where you stand. You hear, rather than see him push himself up from the wall, the flat heels on his shoes clacking with each leisurely step he takes towards you.   
"I like your dress." He adds, in the same low tone. It sounds innocent enough, but the drawling inflection feels as though he is saying something else completely. You don't make a move, and the steps stop as he reaches you. You don't turn around, but stiffen as a finger trails its way from the nape of your neck to the top of your dress zip. Oh my god, oh my god. You feel as if you are hyperventilating, but manage to keep still. What are you supposed to do?

He has a girlfriend sitting in there, oblivious to.. whatever this was. But you didn't initiate it. It isn't your fault, right? Why you, out of all those bloody actresses and pretty women? You, in the daft purple dress..   
You have almost worked yourself up to say something to him, when his hand finds yours, warm and rough and enveloping your fingers. You turn to face him slowly, but meet his eyes for less than a second before he cocks his head to the right. He tugs gently on your hand, and he is guiding you into the plush men's toilets, just as deserted as the women's. 

You feel slightly uneasy, but your heart pounds with a building anticipation and you feel a familiar heat between your legs. Oh, fuck.  
This is bad. This is so, so bad.

You turn at the echoing click, and realise that Martin has locked the bathroom door. You didn't even realise that there was a lock, but then of course, these were V.I.P toilets. You wonder idly for a second what has gone on in here before, but then he is on you, and you can't think anymore.

 

Martin smells faintly of aftershave and an expensive fabric softener, and you close your eyes as his mouth finds your neck, a pattern of gentle, sucking kisses already leaving you breathless.

"I don't.." You try, your words breathless and halfhearted. "This isn't.." You weren't exactly sure what you had been going to say.

You give a squeak of indignation as his fingers tug on the zip of your dress, and tugs it down over your thighs to land on the floor, tearing your tights as he impatiently pulls them from you. He roughly pulls off his own jacket, tossing it atop your dress before coming at you once again, his hands cupping your jaw as he kisses you in earnest. Only on the neck. He is smart, you think. This way, your make-up will stay tidy.

You feel somewhat exposed; stood in your bra, pants and the heels in the bathroom, while he stands in his shirt, buttoned waistcoat and trousers. You have to admit, he looks gorgeous. Better than any bloody poster. This whole thing is incredibly hot, and you half think that you might be dreaming.   
"I really did like that dress." He murmurs against your neck, fingers snaking around you to pop the clasp on your bra. A sigh catches in your throat as he tugs it away, and he bends, his mouth closing around one nipple.   
"Martin.." You breathe, out of sheer shock and sudden need. Right now, you no longer care that his girlfriend is sitting in the hall, or that Rupert and Jimmy might wonder where you've gotten to. Or that Martin doesn't even know your name.  
His fingers slip deftly into your underwear and slide them down over your thighs, and they drop to the floor. You step out of them, and your hands find his shirt, unbuttoning it feverishly.

 

If this is going to happen, you think, I'm getting what I want out of it, too. Oh God. This is Martin Freeman! You think, still disbelieving. His tongue is still working over your nipple, and you find it hard to concentrate on buttons. He begins to help you, and soon the waistcoat and shirt are on the floor too.

Suddenly, Martin drops to his knees in front of you, and when you meet his eyes for a moment, they are glittering darkly. You open your mouth to question him, but he silences you with a swift grab of your hips, jolting you forward and licking a deft stripe between your legs. A strangled gasp finds its way from your lips, and your hands slam backwards into the bathroom tile. He begins a slow motion with his tongue, like he's kissing you, and his rhythm is matched with your low sighs, lips parted and head tipped back as you luxuriate in the sensation.

 

His tongue swirls around your clit, and you are buckling on top of him, pressing yourself into his mouth, and the breathy moans are coming thick and fast from your lips. All at once, you come, and it is a blissful release into Martin's mouth that leaves your heart pounding and your breaths ragged in your chest. Slowly, he stands, grazing a thumb over his lip to catch a drop of moisture and meeting your eyes with a fiery smugness that sends another wave of arousal coursing through you.

You know immediately what you want to do, and drop to your own knees in front of him, pushing his jacket beneath you to save the bruising. Glancing up, he bites his lip in anticipation as you fumble with his belt and trousers, tugging them down over his thighs. He wears tight boxer shorts, and you pull those down too, and his hands have already found their way into your hair. He is big, you realise. Bigger than you'd imagined, on those nights in alone..   
But you take him in your mouth anyway. You let your tongue tease him, swirling around the head before licking the length of him, and then taking him into your mouth. His responding ' _fuck'_ sends a flutter through you, and you are encouraged. His fingers twine tightly into your hair and you tease him with your tongue some more, before he begins to thrust into your mouth, clearly desperate for friction. You treat him to several long sucks, swallowing as much of him as you can take - before you stand up and meet his eyes with a need that matches his own.

  
He understands immediately, and his arms wrap around you, pushing you backwards into the wall. He releases you for just a second, to push his trousers down to the floor, before his hands are on your thighs, pushing you off the ground as his arms find your waist. He is stronger than you thought he would be, and manages to hold you there. He leans down for a split second, lips again finding a nipple and you moan quietly, fingernails scratching a path onto his shoulder.  
"No." He whispers firmly, and you release your hold. You understand. Nobody can know. You cannot leave any signs.

Seconds later, and his lips are on your neck again as he pushes himself into you, sharp and desperate sighs of relief escaping both of you. His fingers are taut on your thighs and your back is cold on the bathroom tile, but the sensations all add to that tightening coil in your abdomen, the blissful friction that is building between your legs.  
You begin to move together, a slow, hard rhythm that has you gasping with each bounce, Martin's arms around your waist keeping you pinned against the wall.   
"Martin-" You rasp breathlessly, and his teeth graze your neck as you move. He pulls back slightly, his hungry eyes finding yours as he murmurs his ragged reply. "I know, sweetheart."

You are both desperate for a faster pace, and the wall just won't cut it. Within a few seconds, Martin has you bending over the sinks, his fingers grabbing at your hips as he sinks back into you. You can see both of you in the mirrors, and you can't help but feel like a voyeur as you groan and clutch at the ceramic, anything to try and hold on, to build up your own friction. You gasp at the sharp slap that finds your backside. It sends a heat through you, and Martin begins to turn the air blue. It's hot. Hotter than you'd thought it could be.  
"Fuck - fuck, sweetheart - fucking hell.. Oh, darling-"  
He's moving fast, slamming into you with a pace that could rival a man half his age, and you are gasping, crying out, drowning in another sea of release.   
"Oh.. Oh- _fuck_ -"  
Martin makes a guttural sound in his throat, and pulls out as quickly as he can. You feel a warm wetness on your back, and resist the urge to grimace, still breathlessly coming down from the last orgasm. You hear Martin's hitching breaths as he walks into a cubicle, returning with tissues that he uses to swiftly clean you up and dump into a side bin.

You both straighten, and you turn to him, both of you somewhat flushed and mussed. He bends, passing you your dress and you swallow, nodding in thanks. You both dress in a slightly awed silence, your heart still hammering in your chest. The tights cannot be salvaged, but you think you still look alright.

Martin takes longer, and you help with the buttons on his waistcoat. When you are finished, he leans forward and kisses you chastely on the mouth. Your heart has finally begun to calm, and you are trying to come to terms with what has just happened.

 

 You just fucked Martin Freeman in the toilets.

You turn back to the sinks, and lean on the counter, looking into the mirrors. You watch him as he stands behind you, before winking and walking out of the door, straightening the lapels of his jacket on the way.

 

\--

 

When you finally return to the table, you have managed to sort yourself out. You still look alright, and your hair is no longer the birds nest that comes from being fucked against a wall. Rupert and Jimmy wave you over and you smile as you settle back into your seat, trying to ignore the sweet soreness that is already beginning between your legs. You carefully avoid looking at the man across the table, but notice that he seems to be doing the same.

You float through the rest of the show in a haze of polite clapping and laughing at jokes, careful to avoid Martin's eye contact. At the end, he leaves with Amanda and you finally relax, turning to say goodbye to Rupert as he bids you farewell. He slips you his phone number.  
"I like your dress." He says quietly, a coy grin on his lips.   
 --


End file.
